George Weasley and-How Interesting What Year is it Again?
by Bleuwolf13
Summary: Made the random title up, sorry for lameness. George is sad. It's been two weeks since the second of May. He, Hermione, and Lee vanish from Fred's funeral. *Poof!* But what year is it, again? Sir? No, I don't want a lemon drop, but thanks anyways. Wait, is it really late July? Huh. Coulda sworn it was still May...weird. 'OW OLD ARE WE? VAT DID YOU JUST SAY? T for swearing, etc.
1. Of Dungbombs and Raspberry Jam

**A/N: Hello, all! I'm alive, yes. Updates on Andi are going to be slow, cause a) school and b) writer's block. I still don't have the next chapter to be posted written. Oops. This may be helped by reviews ;-)**

**Updates on this one are going to be slow and sporadic because I'm not really far along (about 10k words so far…) and this, too, is helped by reviews!**

**Anyways. Post-DH and Pre-DH and Marauders and Hogwarts Eras all at once! *GASP!***

**Aaaand this story will not completely be George's POV. It was originally intended to be, but…well…I never actually *thought* about it, so POV's will switch around occasionally. Probably. Later. :-) That's all. Over with this overlong A/N, out of dreary boringness-land, and into the story!**

* * *

George opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

He hadn't been asleep. Not in the best sense of the word, which meant restful and not dreaming. He had been resting physically.

Maybe not even that. His body seemed as tired and worn as the night before.

His mind was even worse. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, he just wanted to close his eyes and never open them again. Shut out the world.

He glanced across the room to the other bed. The one with the mussed-up covers and the dragon-skin suit dangling over the footboard.

Fred's suit and his bed.

He hadn't touched it since the second of May. It had been nearly two weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Two weeks since Fred had…left him.

He was such a wimp. He couldn't even _think_ of what had happened to Fred. But George could think easily of what Fred would have said if he'd have known.

_"Awww, George, you're such a wimp! But don't worry, 'cause I'm a wimp too. This isn't helping, is it. Have a cream puff?"_

Of course, if Fred had been there to say that and force-feed him a Canary Cream and laugh as he grew feathers and happily wrestle about it afterwards, there wouldn't have been a problem in the first place.

_Fred's gone._ George sighed. He hadn't been out much. Mainly stayed in their room, _in denial_, as he was sure the others were saying. Charlie and Bill had taken it upon themselves to stock his fridge with groceries every few days, and check that he was eating. He had tried to tell them no, but they had insisted.

_Fred's funeral is tomorrow,_ George remembered dimly. He wondered if he would go. Hopefully not, if he got the choice. Bill or Charlie would probably drag him along, though.

As it turned out, he was right.

* * *

The next morning, at promptly nine o'clock, Charlie appeared in his fireplace, suit immaculate. George mentally snorted over his cereal. Charlie almost _never_ wore formal clothes. Almost as infrequently as Bill. Almost. Nothing could compete with Bill's earring, muggle rock concert clothes, and long hair.

"I'm not going, Charlie," George said, catching the pleading look on Charlie's face.

"George-"

"No. End of story."

"Too bad, Mum wants you there and I am _not_ facing her wrath because you're being a git and sitting in your flat." Charlie's tone of voice said that he was adamant.

George winced. He disliked the serious and bossy side of his usually adventure-loving older brother. He was almost like Percy at the moment. He could have at least made the old joke about rather facing down a Hungarian Horntail unarmed than their Mum when she was mad.

"George. C'mon."

"Fine," George muttered, feeling that he didn't have the energy to argue.

"Where's your dragon-skin suit?" Charlie asked, looking around. "Get it, will you?" He didn't say what he was clearly thinking: _Mum wants everyone to look nice for today._

George found his suit, which was hanging in the wardrobe. He slipped it on as well as dress pants - He hated dress pants. Horrible things. - and glanced at himself in the tall mirror.

He flinched at his reflection. An undernourished frame, bags under his eyes, matted barely-orange-anymore hair. Most of all, he flinched at his similarity to the face that everyone missed but saw so frequently.

Fred.

No one was used to George.

Well, they all were used to _him_, just not him being alone.

Fred and George.

Gred and Forge.

Never George.

Never Fred.

Always Fred and George.

George didn't mind being second, in roll call or birth order. For the former, he could always switch places with Fred anyways, so it didn't matter. For the latter…well…aside from the occasional friendly argument about who was older, et cetera, it had never come up.

Besides, someone had to be second, and it just so happened it was him in that lifetime.

Fred was the first.

The first to be born, the first in alphabetical order, the first to die.

Dammit. He was crying now.

George hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks, stuck his wand in his pocket, and hurried out to Floo to the Burrow with Charlie.

The sky was overcast and cloudy, with the impression that it probably wasn't going to really rain, but might drizzle later. Gloomy weather for a gloomy day.

At the Burrow, the mood was sober. No squabbles between siblings. No jokes. No loud noises, even.

Even from Great-Aunt _bloody _Muriel, at the moment.

George couldn't believe the old hag had had the guts to show up, and decided the second she made one rude comment, he would hex her with every curse he knew and not feel a hint of regret afterwards. If he was motivated enough to even move, rather than sit or stand still and wallow in misery.

"You there! Let me sit down, I'm one hundred and eight!" she squawked at Andromeda Tonks, who, to her credit, gave Muriel a very dirty look and did not move an inch from where she sat with little Teddy, who at the moment had bright purple hair that Andromeda was attempting to coax back to brown or black. "_Oh_!" Muriel exclaimed haughtily, tottering off to badger someone else despite the fact that hardly any seats were filled. Andromeda glared after her (George was struck by her momentary resemblance to her sister Bellatrix), then looked around and saw George.

"Hello, George," she said softly. "I'm sorry about his hair; he doesn't seem to want it to go normal."

"Don't worry about it," George said quietly. "If that's how he wants it, it's fine with me, and it should be with everyone else."

Andromeda smiled, albeit in a sad way. George remembered that she had lost her daughter and stepson, Tonks and Remus, as well as her husband, leaving her virtually alone with Teddy. "Thank you."

That was the first conversation he had had in the past fortnight that didn't include someone saying _my condolences _or _I'm sorry for your loss_. It was the closest thing to normal that he could remember. It was better.

"George! Oh, what _have_ you done to your hair?" Molly came bustling over, wand in hand. George tried to back… away… slowly. It didn't work. "Tergeo!" George felt the spell brush through his hair, clean it of all debris, and comb it neatly, parting it down the middle.

"Mum," he protested, but his voice had no energy in it.

"Fine, mess it up again, see if I fix it," she said, running off to manage seating issues. George half-heartedly ran his hand back and forth through his hair and shook his head, effectively mussing it up. Neat hair. He could not_ stand_ super-neat hair. Clean was fine. Combed, sure. But neat and parted and shiny?

Absolutely not.

Even Sirius, who had loved his hair, hadn't had it neat and parted and shiny, he remembered with a pang of loss.

George caught a glimpse of Bill, who was standing with Fleur (who was wearing a simple black dress) and talking with Charlie. He was wearing an untidy, dusty-looking suit and had taken his dragon-fang earring out for the occasion. He had not, however, cut his hair, instead leaving it back in his typical ponytail. George thought that Fred would have preferred casual wear. After all, he had planned his wedding as follows: body-bind Mum, no nonsense, wear whatever you like. George wondered if his funeral shouldn't follow the same wishes. But funerals were different. If Fred had willed it like he would have wanted, well, things might have been different. But neither Fred nor George had wills, and if they had, it would be simple: It all goes to Fred/George or next of kin.

Several minutes later, George found his seat in the front row and sat in it, mindlessly staring at the large hole in the ground that would soon be his brother's grave.

Finally, the funeral music started, and Fred's coffin floated up to the front of the service and rested on a marble podium.

_Fred would have _hated_ this music_, George thought. _The_ Weird Sisters_ would be more appropriate._

After several very long, very depressing minutes of funeral march music-which only had one real use, and that was using it as a tune for the Hogwarts school song-the coffin top floated off and Fred's body was revealed.

As George looked at his twin's face, it hit him. _Fred's gone forever._ He was unable to stop the sudden tears that poured down his cheeks, splashing onto his dragon-skin suit, nor the spasm of his shoulders that shook his entire being in a silent sob.

Then, his mind went really blank.

Robot-blank.

I-can't-think-or-feel-anything-but-pain-because-my -systems-are-shutting-down-because-of-extreme-emot ional-pain blank.

Not numb. Numb meant no pain. Blank meant no thought and just sitting, staring at his brother and into space at the same time, mind overwhelmed with pain and empty of feeling simultaneously.

My-twin-brother-is-dead blank.

George felt himself move with the crowd. File through the line. Whisper a choked goodbye to Fred, kiss his forehead, and move on.

As all the people filed out of the marquee to the Burrow's yard, which had a very long table set perfectly, George heard a very loud, squawking voice.

"Well, it'll be quieter, now there's only one, after all, they were so ill-mannered…badly raised, I think…"

_Muriel._

George started digging around in his pockets. He always had one on him-oh, _where_ was the dang thing-it's got to be in that pocket-no, that one-_There!_

He pulled a small, roughly spherical object out of his pocket, weighed it in his hand, and chucked it at Muriel's head, putting a large amount of fury into the throw.

The object exploded on contact, causing a wave of green-tinted gas and putrid smell to overcome Muriel. Her eyes widened with horror and fury. George turned away, having gained no satisfaction from blowing up a dungbomb on Great Aunt Muriel, and walked into the Burrow.

When he entered the door, he saw something rather surprising: Harry was leaning in the doorway, watching him calmly. "Nice aim, George. She deserved it," he said.

"Yes, she did," George growled, making to shove past him.

"Nope, not going there," Harry said, standing his ground. _...Merlin's pants, when did he get so strong? I swear, it seemed like it was only yesterday that we were dragging him through the snow. _ "I'm under orders from your Mum, by the way, so I really don't have much of a choice."

George had to admit it; that was true. "Fair enough. What'm I supposed to do?"

"I think she wants you to talk to someone, me in particular," Harry said.

"I'm not talking about that." George turned away.

"Yeah, I know. But we're supposed to talk anyways, so we should sit down."

George sat on the couch. Harry also sat. He pulled out a small, home-bound book.

"I thought you should have this. Ron, Hermione, and I made it with help from your brothers and Ginny."

George opened it to the first page. It was a snapshot of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in all its glory, complete with flashing You-no-poo sign and jumping Pygmy Puffs in the windows. He felt tears well in his eyes and fought them back, though one slipped down his cheek, wet and hot against his skin.

"Thank you, Harry. It means a lot to me," he said quietly, closing the book to examine the cover. It was a simple picture of them laughing at a long-forgotten joke.

But it wasn't long-forgotten. George remembered every minute detail of it.

They had set off fireworks in the hallways, and it was clearly taken right as they were set off, as afterwards they had hidden in a secret passageway. A rocket was zooming past the camera.

In that moment, George wanted nothing more than to have Fred back, and would have done anything to achieve that.

Then, he felt and saw the Burrow twisting and bending around him, creating a blur of motion. He looked up in alarm, but it was too fast to stop. He held tight to the book and closed his eyes until the world came to a stop.

When he blinked open his eyes, his surroundings were familiar.

He was at Hogwarts, in an empty classroom. He was back in his school robes, but his wand was still in his pocket.

George glanced at the clock. 11:36 AM. That was about right, he supposed. There was a calendar on the desk, still wrapped in plastic. The year was….

_No._ That was impossible. He must be seeing things.

But he wasn't. The year on the calendar was 1976.

* * *

**A/N: So how was that? Not to angst-y, I hope? Do you want to kill me? Hug me? Hold my poor innocent four-ish-year-old puppy hostage until I update again?**

**Talk to me, people. Don't be afraid to sound crazy. Or sane. Either's fine by me ;-)**


	2. Of Backstories and Accents

**A/N: 12 of you read the previous chapter as of yet. Six were logged in. One favorited and followed. (Hello, thanks!) None reviewed. No more updates till *one* of you reviews. I mean it! Really!**

* * *

_1976. 1976. _That year sounded strangely familiar.

_Oh well_. Now was not the time to dwell on it. Maybe it was a very old calendar. George decided to pay a visit to Dumbledore, or McGonagall, or whoever happened to be residing in the Headmaster's office.

He reached the Headmaster's office quite quickly. The guard statue was the problem.

"Lemon Drop, Sherbet Lemon, Chocolate Frog, Licorice Wand, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Cauldron Cake, Acid Pop, Pumpkin Pasty," George started reciting all the candies he knew from memory. "Cockroach Cluster?"

The statue moved aside. George, who had learned long ago not to be surprised by Dumbledore's passwords, stepped onto the revolving staircase and waited as it carried him up to the office.

When it stopped, two people were looking at him. Both were extremely familiar. One was on him in about a second.

"_Fred!_" Hermione screamed in his ear, hug-attacking him.

"Hate to rain on your parade, 'Mione, but I'm George," George said, feeling for his left ear. It was perfectly whole. No wonder.

"Oh-sorry, George-I just thought-your ear-it's good to see someone familiar-do you know what's going on?" She said all this very fast.

"It's okay, good to see you too, and no, I do not," George responded, readjusting his footing, somewhat off-balance because of Hermione's tight hug.

"I take it you two know each other?" Dumbledore asked politely, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. Hermione let go of George and nodded.

"George is my boyfriend's older brother," she explained.

"Ah. So, what is your story, Mr. Weasley?" he asked. George glanced at Hermione. How did the old guy know his last name? "Ah, forgive me; I see that you are confused. I merely assumed due to your freckled visage and red hair that you are of Weasley descent. More importantly, lemon drop?"

"Um-no thanks, Sir. Yes, I am, Weasley and Prewett. I was at-well, it doesn't matter where I was, really-but anyways, I was talking to Harry and the room just started bending around me, swirling and whatnot. It was somewhat like Apparation-not really like a Portkey-, except without the suffocating blackness part. I ended up in an empty classroom, and I came here."

"That matches Ms. Granger's story almost exactly, except she appeared in the library and was with a friend outside."

Hermione nodded. "It's probably where we would feel most comfortable appearing. Sir, could you tell me, what year is it?"

"It is 1975, Ms. Granger," he said. Hermione's hands flew up to cover her mouth.

"Oh my goodness I _knew_ this was the past but I didn't know it was _that_ far back and _holy-freaking-Merlin_ George do you know why this is a special year?" She said this even faster than usual.

George shook his head mutely.

"George-_think_. Sirius, James, Remus-they were at Hogwarts now, in their fifth year!"

"Sirius Black, James Potter, Remus Lupin?" Dumbledore asked. Hermione nodded. "Yes, they and young Mr. Pettigrew are going into their fifth year in a week."

_Pettigrew._ "Hermione," George said in a low, quiet voice. "Pettigrew is going to be here. I'll bet you anything _Dolohov_ will be here as well."

Hermione, picking up on George's intentions, said in an equally quiet voice, "George, we _can't_. It'd mess up _everything_. We could lose the war if we do this!"

"But we could also win the war, and Harry could have a family-and a _childhood!_-, and Fred could be alive."

"We don't know how we're here, we don't know why we're here, and we don't know how we could impact the future! George, we can't take such a huge risk!"

"Hermione, if we don't, it's giving Harry's family and their friends, my uncles, and Fred a death sentence. And Teddy's family. Like five of your DADA teachers. Creevey. Our old Potions Master. Cedric. And you know _bloody well_ who else!" George said, not really wanting to say they were giving Dumbledore a death sentence right in front of him or give away the fact that Snape was going to die.

"I do, George, I really do, but this could kill all of them and more! What if Ginny died because of this? Bill? Charlie? Ron? _Harry?_"

Dumbledore twiddled his thumbs, looking vaguely interested.

Just then, an irate-looking Professor McGonagall walked into the office. Behind her was another very familiar face-Lee Jordan.

"Lee!" George yelped. His friend looked rather shaken.

"F-Fred?" he asked hopefully.

"No, you dolt. I'm George," George said, rolling his eyes. "Why does everyone think I'm Fred just because my ear was magically time-travel repaired?"

His question went unanswered. Professor McGonagall took in the scene, the words, and looked rather shocked. "Professor Dumbledore, what is the meaning of this?" she asked, glaring at the students.

_Ah, dear Minnie, _George thought. _Still my favorite professor at Hogwarts, and still has the best glare of them all._

"I'm not quite sure, Minerva. One of Hogwarts' many eccentricities, I believe," Dumbledore said calmly.

"Who are you?" she asked them. "He appeared in the Commentators' box of the Quidditch pitch and refused to tell me his name, for some reason."

Lee looked rather defensive. George snorted. Of course Lee had to have appeared in the Commentators' box. Hermione rolled her eyes. "We can trust her, Lee. Even if she didn't like your commentaries," the bushy-haired witch said. McGonagall looked rather confused.

"Fine, fine," Lee muttered. "I was practicing constant vigilance, that's it. Like Mad-eye always said. I'm Lee Jordan."

"George Weasley."

"Hermione Granger. We're from 1998," Hermione said. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Albus, the report of last week-"

"I know, Minerva. If you _are_ from the future, you should know my favorite type of jam," Dumbledore said strictly.

Hermione looked like she was thinking hard. George and Lee left it to her after exchanging a glance. She started talking to herself under her breath. "Oh, Harry told me this-he _did_, I _know_ it-when Dumbledore showed up to his house in '96-that's it! Raspberry," she said triumphantly. Dumbledore nodded, and the twinkle in his eye returned.

"You see, Minerva, I now know that they are not Death Eaters, and they are from the future, because no one now knows my favorite type of jam besides myself and possibly my brother, and neither of us would have told something so important to Death Eaters."

Professor McGonagall nodded stiffly, still eyeing the three time-travelers suspiciously.

"Of _course _we're not Death Eaters!" Lee said indignantly. "Geez, Hermione's boyfriend's best mate defeated-"

Hermione smacked Lee on the shoulder hard enough that he stopped talking. "Lee, you _can't say things like that_. We don't know how it'll affect the future!"

"Still, the fact remains that-"

"No. Telling. Anyone. Unless. Absolutely. Necessary," Hermione said, giving him a glare that up until then had been reserved for Ron and Harry. Possibly the twins on occasion.

"Okay, okay. No need to be so touchy," Lee said. Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation.

"Lee, we're in the past! For all we know, blowing up _one _of Dumbledore's belongings could change the course of the entire war!" (George momentarily thought of the time Harry had exploded part of Dumbledore's office because he had to blow off steam, and agreed.)

"War?" Professor McGonagall asked sharply. "Don't tell me it's still going in 1998!"

"No-wait-there's a war now, isn't there-should have known that-the current one ends in 1981. The next one really starts in 1995, but it's been planned since at least 1991."

"So we get a decade of peace before the Death Eaters come back. Wonderful," Professor McGonagall said dryly. "Am I allowed to know why the war stops in the first place?"

Hermione shared a glance with Lee and George. "I don't think so. You'd probably subconsciously change how you treat them, and therefore how they think, and whether or not what happened happens, if that made any sense."

"Nope," George and Lee said.

"Yes, that_ does_ make sense," Professor McGonagall said at the same time. "I assume 'they' are students or staff?"

"Yes," Hermione said after a moment's hesitation.

"And they considerably affect the outcome of the wars?"

"Yes…in a way," Hermione said. "Professor, does the library have any comprehensive books on time travel? I don't recall ever seeing any."

"No, but I have a collection in my personal library." The professor waved her wand and several thick volumes entered the office. "There. These are the best ones that I have read. They all agree on this, however: bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time."

"Yes, Professor, I know. I used a Time-Turner all through my third year to get to classes."

"A Time-Turner? Whatever is that?" Professor Dumbledore said. "It sounds a most curious object."

"It allows you to travel back in time an hour each time you tip it upside down. When the time changes to when you first traveled, your body where you were when you traveled back vanishes and is immediately replaced by the self that traveled back, if it makes any sense."

"Nope," George and Lee said again.

"Ah. I see," Professor Dumbledore said. "I presume it is invented sometime between now and your third year, then?"

Hermione nodded.

"So, do you have any clue how you got back here?"

"I might," George said, startling himself and everyone but Dumbledore. "First, I have a question. Can magic be accomplished by sheer force of will and concentration, but with no intent to actually use it?"

"It is quite possible, Mr. Weasley. Magic, especially that which wouldn't normally be possible, can be caused by emotions and mental states, such as when young children cause magic. Do you have a theory?"

"I do, sir. At the moment we traveled back, I was in our family house after my brother's funeral. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to have the chance to go back and save him. I believe this is our chance." Hermione covered her mouth briefly, eyes shining with unshed tears for a second before she blinked them back. Lee looked down and placed a hand on George's back.

"An excellent idea," Dumbledore said calmly, evaluating the three students with his x-ray eyes.

"How old are you?" Professor McGonagall asked suddenly, looking from one person to the next.

"Eighteen," Hermione said promptly.

"We're twenty," Lee said, gesturing to himself and George.

Dumbledore and McGonagall frowned.

"Well, I hate to say this, but you most certainly do not look eighteen and twenty," McGonagall said. George glanced at Lee and Hermione, who also glanced at each other and him.

George realized that they all looked younger.

"Well then," he said, for lack of anything better. "Is there a spell that would tell us how old we are?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is," Dumbledore said. "_Ostendere _(aust-en-deray)_ Tempus!_" said the elderly wizard, flicking his wand-which Hermione gasped at the sight of for some reason-probably something to do with Horcruxes and You-know-who and all that nonsense; George still hadn't figured it out completely-and frowning.

"It seems that you are all fifteen," he said.

"What?" George asked. "Do you mean Lee and I are fifteen, and Hermione's thirteen, or she's fifteen, and we're seventeen? Or the average age of us is fifteen, and we're sixteen and she's fourteen? Or maybe I'm 16, Lee's 15, and Hermione's 14?"

"I mean what I said, Mr. Weasley. You all are the physical age of fifteen."

"That's pretty powerful magic," Hermione noted. "It sent us each back in age a different amount but exactly the same in time."

"Anyways, since that is all sorted out, you will be attending Hogwarts in a week, I presume?" Professor McGonagall asked.

"Sure," George said. "Why not?"

"Yep," Lee agreed. Hermione considered and nodded.

"But we'll have to have false names," she said. "All of us. And George, you'll have to dye your hair and get rid of those freckles. Someone'll recognize you as a Weasley in two seconds flat if you show up in the Great Hall as you are."

"My hair! And my freckles! Noooo," George said dramatically. "Anything but that!"

"_Obsuro_ _Permanentem_," Hermione said, calmly pointing her wand at George's face. A curious sensation spread over his scalp and face, like cool water or wind. "Much better. I can hardly recognize you."

"Now for names," Lee said. "Why don't we pretend to be exchange students?"

"Good idea, Lee. You can be a half-blood from…America, I think. Andy Jones sounds plenty American, don't you think? And you could have gone to the North American Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Hermione finished.

Lee nodded. "George, you look _really_ foreign. Almost like those Durmstrang fellows. Maybe you can be a privately tutored pure-blood from Russia."

"Hey!" George protested.

"Dmitri Franklyn," Hermione tried. "Sounds Russian to me."

"Dmitri? What kind of a name is that?" George asked.

"Your name," Lee said. "Hermione, what about you?"

"Homeschooled half-blood from France," George decided. "Katherina Picasso."

"You know that Picasso was a famous painter?" Hermione checked.

"He is? Cool," Lee said. George shook his head.

"I guess I could be one of his descendants," she said.

"We need to practice our accents," Lee decided. " 'ello! I'm from Bawston! I shop at the Connah Stohe!" he announced to general amusement.

"Try Chicago," Hermione suggested.

"Ill-uh-no-way!" Lee said happily. "Chicago's in Illinois, right?"

"Maybe a spell would work better," Hermione muttered. "George, you try."

"Guten tag, my comrades," he said in a hilariously fake, monotone, and baritone voice.

"Professors, do you know any spell that could help with this?" Hermione asked the teachers. Dumbledore nodded.

"Perhaps. _Occidens Accentus_," he said, flicking his wand at Lee.

"Hey," he said in a perfect Chicago accent. "What did you just do?" Lee frowned at his accent. Normally, he would have said _Oi! What'd you do?_

"_Aquilonem Accentus_," Dumbledore said, again flicking his wand at George.

"Ja, vat haf you done?" he asked in a slightly haughty-sounding Russian accent. Then, he yelped in a very un-Russian-like fashion.

"No, thanks, Professor, I can make my own French accent," Hermione said hastily.

"I'm sure you are more than capable, Miss Granger, but just in case you slip up: G_allico Accentus_," the Professor said.

"Eet was unnezessary!" Hermione protested in her own French accent, sounding _exactly_ like Fleur.

"I think things will go more…naturally for you if you don't have to fake an accent when you speak," said Dumbledore, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Merci, Professor," Hermione sighed.

"Yep," Lee said.

"Indeed," grunted George.

"A couple more things, then I think we can find you a place to retire for the night. Because I have no doubt that you will be spending time together in order to research how you got here, why, and what you should do, I have come to the conclusion that this will attract curious attention towards you. To lessen this, I suggest that you, Mr. Weasley, and you, Miss Granger, pretend to be a pen-pal couple or, as students phrase it these days, get together."

"Vat?" exclaimed George with wide eyes as Hermione also let out a yelp of protest.

"No!" Even with only one monosyllabic word, Hermione's French accent was pronounced.

Lee started laughing at their expressions, then hastily turned it into a cough at their glares.

"Fine, I shall do zees," Hermione said, sounding rather irked. "Az long az George agrees."

"Okay," George agreed. "As long as ve do not haff to…vu know…"

"Only to prove you're together," Lee smirked. George and Hermione shot dagger-glares at him.

"Shut up, Lee," George growled.

"Never!" Lee proclaimed.

"Since we have sorted out names, we shall move on," Dumbledore said wisely. "You shall be sorted with the rest of the first years, I think-"

"Oh, but Professor, we know our house. We're all Gryffindor," Lee said.

"In the 1990's, perhaps. But now, I think you should be re-sorted. Perhaps a surprise will be in store."

The group shared a look, not liking the sound of that.

"Okay," Hermione agreed. "We can stay in ze Room of Requirement unteel it ees time for ze Sorting and ze Opening Feast."

"The Room of Requirement?" Dumbledore asked. "What is that?"

"It's a room that changes to whatever you need-slash-want it to," Lee said. "It's pretty awesome, actually."

"Indeed, Mr. Jordan. Off you go, now," the Professor said. "And remember, none of the staff or students except those in this room shall know who you truly are."

* * *

When they got to the Room of Requirement, it immediately opened its doors to a room exactly like the Gryffindor Common Room, complete with Hermione's favorite armchair and a merrily crackling fire. There were three doors, each labeled with one of their names. George's was in the middle, Lee's was on the far left, and Hermione's was on the right.

Each of their rooms sprouted trunks with their belongings already in them. George placed his book in the front pocket and warded it with an easy charm; no matter what house he would be in, he would have to protect it from curious eyes once term started.

The next week passed quickly. Finally, it was the day of the Opening Feast. Hermione studied frantically (trying to prepare herself for loads of questions) and George and Lee played Exploding Snap, much to her annoyance.

"Vould zou stop zat!" she exclaimed after a particularly loud explosion, looking up from her book about French culture.

"Nope," George and Lee said. She sighed and went back to her book. George and Lee laughed.

* * *

They met Professor McGonagall just before the Hogwarts Express arrived. She instructed them to wait out of the Entrance Hall, without drawing attention to themselves, until they were called in.

As they waited for the first years to arrive, they discussed among themselves.

"Hermione, from what Dumbledore said, I think one of us at least is going to be in a different House," Lee said.

"Oh, I 'ope not," she said. "I 'ate zees accent. Eet ees so _annoying_."

"If von ov us is in a divverent House, ve vill have to communicate somehow," George said. "Through an enchanted slip ov paper, perhaps."

"Enchante!" Hermione squealed, looking briefly confused at the foreign word. "I shall feex eet later, one for each ov us."

"Great," Lee said. "Now we just have to worry about getting into Gryffindor."

For the Sorting, they had all dressed a bit differently. Lee was just wearing plain Hogwarts robes. George was wearing a heavy cloak. Hermione was wearing her robes, but also had styled her hair a bit and worn a beret. George personally thought that it made her look very French. Which was a good thing.

Finally, the first years, sopping wet-apparently it was storming outside- entered the Great Hall. They listened as they were sorted. It sounded like the houses were about equal.

"Now, before our feast commences, we have three foreign exchange students to welcome to our school this year. They shall be sorted into their houses, and I expect you to welcome them as one of your own," Dumbledore said. "Professor McGonagall, if you will?"

"Katherina Picasso, from France," McGonagall called. Hermione shot one last nervous glance at her friends before confidently walking into the hall and sitting on the stool.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat exclaimed after a few seconds. Hermione, smiling, easily stood and took a seat at the cheering Gryffindor table.

"Andrew Jones, from the United States of America."

Lee walked out and also sat on the stool.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat yelled, after only a bit longer than it had taken with Hermione. The Gryffindors cheered again.

"Dmitri Franklyn, from Russia," McGonagall said as the hall fell quiet once more. George walked forward and took a seat on the stool.

"_So, _Dmitri Franklyn_, here to save your brother_?" the hat said slyly.

"_You know I am_," George thought at it, mentally rolling his eyes.

"_George Weasley was, and still is, most definitely a Gryffindor. I have no doubt of that. Dmitri Franklyn, however, would be of best use to his friends in-_"

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**A/N: I'm sorely tempted to make Jim the Sorting Hat (known as Jimmy only to the Fat Lady and Godric Gryffindor; known as James to none) say Hufflepuff...so you'd better review with your strangely accurate guesses and death threats...but maybe not the death threats...yeah death threats are optional.**

**I'd really rather you review. I won't think you're silly or crazy. Probably. Honest!**

**Please?**


	3. Of Hats of Sorting and Notes of Authors

**A/N: How intriguing. No one mentioned Ravenclaw. Maybe Dmitri should go there. He is pretty smart... nah. It's already been written.**

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_"SLYTHERIN!"_ the hat screamed.

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**A/N: Thanks to my two reviewers! I would have to change the window I'm in to see your names, and I'm too lazy to do that, so you shall remain anonymous!**

**I'm fairly sure George could never make it into Hufflepuff. Alternate universe and/or time travel or not.**

**Don't you all just love how short this chapter was? A review and I shall update faster!**


	4. Of Snakes and Skulls

**A/N: Hello. Oh yes I did. Thanks jediK person-who-I-can't-spell-backslash-remember-your-n ame for reviewing! Sorry for the name botch! This chapter will be longer, but about halfway through, I switch to ACCENTS FROM NOW ON: **Lee, American **George, Russian **_Hermione, French_** This is marked with an *asterisk. **

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George, fighting to keep his face expressionless, stood and walked over to the Slytherin table, which was politely applauding. Hermione and Lee were sharing a look of dismay.

_Dammit Dumbledore, I knew you engineered this_, he thought as Dumbledore rose with a smile.

"Now that all of our new students, young and old, have been sorted, I would like to introduce the newest member of our staff. Professor Calloway will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. A round of applause, if you please?"

A Professor stood up. He had brown hair which was slightly messed up, and a stern but kind face. George thought that he would be a pretty good professor, judging by past experience. He seemed similar to Professor Lupin, but not werewolf-y at all.

The whole Hall gave a polite few seconds of clapping. Professor Calloway sat back down.

"Now, I will not keep you from your feast any longer. Dig in!" Dumbledore said, clapping his hands thrice.

Food magically appeared on the tables, of every variety imaginable. George thought that he would not be able to eat anything for once, but still took a fair amount of food.

"So, you a pureblood?" asked the wizard next to him. George almost choked on his pork chop, recognizing an older version of Crabbe. He nodded abruptly, taking an instant dislike to Crabbe Sr. "Nice to meet you. I'm Troy Crabbe.

"Pleasure," George said, swallowing hastily. He had a feeling that life as a Slytherin was pretty much going to suck.

After several introductions, George was founding out that most of the Slythergits were pure-blood fanatics at the moment. They all asked, before introducing themselves, his blood status, one way or another.

"Now that you are all fed and watered, please follow your prefects to your dormitories," Dumbledore announced. "And may it be another great start to another wonderful year!"

The students stood. George followed the group of Slytherins to the dungeons, feeling increasingly uneasy.

When they reached a large, oval-y portrait of hissing, squirming green snakes, the Prefect stopped. "I'm your prefect. If you must talk to me, call me Dolohov, or Antonin, or whatever the bloody hell you feel like. The password is pureblood."

George felt his eyes widening. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was on his wand (which was still in its holster) and he was ready to curse Dolohov. However, he stopped himself knowing that this wasn't the time._ So when is the time? _A voice inside his head argued (It sounded suspiciously like the Sorting Hat and Ron combined).

_Screw you, I don't know_, he argued back. _But it sure isn't now._

_Why not?_

_Because we're in the middle of the Slytherin Common Room._

_That's hardly a reason._

_Shut up._ George returned his focus to the Common Room, which was a cave. It was under the lake, clearly; the light was a dim greenish glow, seemingly coming from the rock ceiling. He saw several reading lamps that looked to be made out of skulls. Real or fake, he couldn't tell. There was a glass wall into the Black Lake on one side of the room. He glimpsed a pale shape flit by, and briefly wondered if it was the Giant Squid.

"Girls, down that hallway. Boys, down this one. Find the door with your name. There's quite a few of you this year, so you might be in different dorms than your friends. Deal with it. Franklyn, you're further toward the end of the hall with some of the other sixth-years."

George started and walked toward the end of the long, dark hallway until he came to a door with the following in silver lettering:

6th years

Crabbe, Troy  
Franklyn, Dmitri  
Goyle, Edward  
Lestange, Rabastan  
Nott, Theodore

George opened the door and found his trunk at the foot of a four-poster bed with green hangings and green and silver pillows. The comforter was green, and the sheets were a neutral white.

After several minutes, Crabbe came in and nodded to him. "Dmitri."

"**Troy**," George said coolly, nodding back and continuing to read his book, which he found exceptionally boring but better by far than the company of Slytherins…especially blood-purity-maniac-like Slytherins.

"So, what's it like in Russia?"

"**It is much warmer here than what I am used to**," George said, semi-avoiding the question. "**Is it like this year-round?**"

"Nah, it gets a lot colder in the winter and a lot warmer in the summer," Crabbe said. "D'you know where everyone else is?"

"**No**," George said. "**Are they not in the Common Room?**"

"Nah, I figured they'd be here already. Probably still in the halls."

George nodded and refocused on _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, revised version 2.3_. It said that Patronus Charms were nearly impossible, which wasn't true. Hadn't he made one in 7th year? Hadn't 3rd years (cough _*Harry*_ cough) produced them? Oh well.

After about a half-hour, three other fifteen-year-olds walked in. They did double-takes when they spotted the imposing Russian boy sitting on his bed, shaggy black hair nearly covering his sky blue eyes, reading a book.

"Dmitri," one greeted him. George recognized him from dinner.

"**Theodore**," he said calmly, glancing up.

The next thing he knew, a wand was shoved in his face. "You-will-_never-_call-me-that-again_-do-you-understand_?" snarled Nott. The other boys were eagerly watching, fascinated. George focused, thinking of the Disarming Spell, and mentally cast it.

Nott's wand flew out of its owner's hand. He looked stunned, then terrified/mad. He scrambled to collect his wand and then, casting one last wide-eyed glance at George, got into his bed and drew the curtains.

The other boys looked at George with what seemed like fear, a new respect, and awe. He shot a glare at them, drew the curtains around his four-poster, and went to bed, inwardly sighing with relief and resignation.

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**Review for an update! I'm not sure how many chapters I have left ready to post though!**


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